Page 63 of Dirty Little Saint

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed.

Is but a dim-remembered story.

Of the old time entombed.

Professor Crane gives her a wink as she looks up at him for approval. “Beautiful. Haunting. But was Poe referring to a house? Or was it about himself? Evil things in robes of sorrow assailed his high estate. These could be creatures or ghosts… but,” he walks down the center of the room, locking eyes with every student as he passes each pew, “he could also be referring to his inner demons, the ghosts of his past that now haunt his mind.”

My belly flips as he stops in front of my pew. I swallow hard as my palms start to sweat. We lock eyes, and he looks at me the same way he did the other night at Swallow. When he watched Riot, Atlas, and Val defile me in the dark corner of the bar.

“What do you think, Miss Blackwell? Was Poe writing about a haunted house or a haunted mind?” He rests his hand on the pew in front of me, and I can’t help but notice how his long, slender fingers clench the wood as if he needs it to steady himself.

I gaze up and follow the vein in his neck all the way up to the muscle twitching in his jaw. This man is unnerved by something.

“Maybe it was both,” I murmur. “Maybe he went mad because his palace was haunted.”

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Read the last four lines of the poem for me.”

I fumble with the pages as this whole display strikes a nerve in my belly. It’s not the way everyone focuses on me. It’s the way he watches me… like I’m the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

I clear my throat and skim down the page until I find the last part of the poem.

While, like a ghostly rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh—but smile no more.

“I think you might be right, Miss Blackwell. We’ll never know.” He turns away from me, and I release the breath I’m holding. He walks back to the altar and spins around to face us all again. “This class isn’t about finding the answers. It’s not about choosing between the literal and figurative. It’s about embracing both. The true lesson comes from asking the right questions.”

If I wasn’t so embarrassed about what transpired between us at the bar, I’d actually really fucking enjoy this class.

He zeroes in on me again, sending goose pimples across my skin. “Over the next semester, we’ll explore the works of some of the most haunted poets. There’s no homework, no tests. All you have to do to get an A in this class is show up with an open mind, be on time, and ask questions. Sound good?”

A few students actually clap with glee. Fucking hell. Be on time. My cheeks burn again, but now it extends down to my neck and chest too. The harder I try to be a fly on the wall, the more I become the fucking elephant in the room. I suck at blending in. Fuck.

We spend the rest of the hour going over the syllabus and reading material and watching him try to field personal questions from several female students, including the panting redhead from earlier.

I try with all my power not to wear my emotions on my face. But I can’t help it. My eye twitches every time someone asks him if there’s a Mrs. Crane or a partner waiting for him at home.

Poor Villette. Once they find out she’s his sister, she’s going to have her own little fan club of Crane stalkers.

A bell tolls from a distant tower and sends all of the students scrambling from their pews. This is my chance to slip out. I have the advantage of sitting at the back, so I shove my book back into my bag and leap from my seat. Just as a large group rushes past, I dive in between them, almost knocking a couple of them over.

“Miss Blackwell.” Professor Crane’s voice reaches over the shuffle of feet and creaking pews.

His tone is soft but commanding. It stops me dead in my tracks.

Fuck.

I slowly turn around to see the smirks and eye rolls from the students, who undoubtedly think I’m about to be reprimanded for being late.

The redhead bumps her shoulder against mine. “Lucky bitch.”

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